


In a foreign embrace

by scrollgirl



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drugs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-01
Updated: 2010-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:19:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrollgirl/pseuds/scrollgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Toby and Sam meet in New York City years before they join Bartlet For America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a foreign embrace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raedbard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedbard/gifts).



> [](http://raedbard.livejournal.com/profile)[**raedbard**](http://raedbard.livejournal.com/) put down Toby/Sam AU fic as an item on her holiday wish-list. I toyed with the fact that Toby and Sam both lived in New York City for years, likely without ever running into each other. What would've happened if they'd met earlier, away from the campaign?

Sam is a bright guy. He's friendly, charming, good-looking. But mostly he's smart -- very, very smart. All his teachers in high school said so. He skipped two grades, got early admission to Princeton. That's an Ivy League school and they don't take just anybody. Sam graduated magna cum laude from Princeton, he was editor of the Duke Law Journal, he's moving up fast at Dewey Ballantine, he's got a head-hunter from Gage Whitney Pace sniffing around. Sam knows he's a valued commodity.

But this guy, the bald guy with the beard at the end of the bar, the one who cowed the bartender into changing the channel to C-SPAN and is currently railing drunkenly at Senator Grier -- he's something else altogether.

Sam stares at the guy, enthralled. He doesn't pay attention to Mike complaining for the twentieth time about how his girlfriend wants to move in together, which is really her way of saying she wants to get married even though he's told her a million times that they're not ready for that kind of a commitment.

Instead, Sam's watching the guy at the end of the bar, fascinated by the blur of motion his hands make as they flutter from glass to pen to peanuts to mouth to glass again. Blanche has dragged Mike over to meet a new group that has just come into the bar, and Sam is left to his voyeurism. But then the guy finishes his drink in one gulp and heads for the bathrooms in the back. Like a rat bewitched, Sam follows.

It's a dingy bar, like the kinds of places Josh would drag him to when they were students, where the beer is cheap and the food is worse. Sam had sworn he'd give up these bars now that he's got a real job, but sometimes the old familiar places are best. The bar is run-down, full of shadows and empty crates in the back.

"Did you want something?" the guy asks from behind a half-open door in a dark corner, and Sam nearly jumps out of his skin. "I saw you staring. You got a problem with my politics?" The man's voice is smoky, sensuous.

Sam shakes his head 'no', eyes wide. He drifts closer, into the dim unknown. "I'm pretty sure -- I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure that the stats you were quoting are out-of-date." He manages to keep his tone fairly light as he speaks, aiming for casual, though who he's fooling at this point is anybody's guess.

The man catches his wrist in a loose grip before Sam even realises that he's reached out to touch him. "That's what you came back here to tell me," he says, sceptical. His thumb is stroking along the vein in Sam's wrist, feeling the pulse-point hammering beneath his thin skin. Sam is dizzy with desire. "That I've got old numbers."

Sam shakes his head again, hazily. "Yes -- no." He's not sure what he's saying any more. It's possible he's had too much to drink. It's possible he's high. "You were yelling at the TV," he insists, like that means something, like it explains why he needs to get down on his knees for this guy. When he tugs on his arm, Sam stumbles forward and lands with an 'oof' against his chest. The closet door snicks shut behind him.

His smile nearly lost in his dark beard, the guy asks, "Do you always get hard when people yell at the TV?" He's got a hand on Sam's dick through his pants, cupping him gently, and Sam whines high in his throat, he's so turned on. "You like that?"

Wordless, Sam can only nod and press urgently against the guy's hand, his own hands grabbing fistfuls of rumpled dress shirt. He squeezes his eyes shut when nimble fingers flick open the button of his jeans and unzip the fly. "Well, this is unexpected," the man murmurs into Sam's ear, dark and amused. His beard rasps against Sam's cheek. Sam shudders, wonders if he'll be marked by this, in the harsh light of a Manhattan morning. He can't make himself care.

"Unexpected but not entirely unwelcome. This could be a new RNC strategy," he muses, sliding a hand past the elastic of Sam's underwear to fondle his dick. Sam is trembling now, fighting the instinct to thrust. He hears himself panting _pleasepleaseplease_, one unbroken, unending plea for mercy. The guy is still talking, mostly to himself. "I almost have to applaud their ingenuity. Lose an election, get a sweet, horny boy as a consolation prize." The guy hums his pleasure as he strokes Sam to the edge, but then he circles the base of Sam's dick and clamps down, staving off climax.

"Wha...?" Sam pries his eyes open to stare up at him uncomprehendingly. Sam is a sweating, shaking mess of tension and lust and need.

"God, look at you," the guy says, admiringly. His eyes are black, fathomless in the murky light. "Most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He squeezes Sam's dick again. "You could do this for a living."

Sam's face burns with humiliation. He's on the edge, near to exploding, and the bastard is barely affected -- he's not even breathing hard. "Get off me, get off, get _off_," he growls, twisting away. But the guy still has a hand on Sam's dick, and he's fast, faster than Sam expects, and Sam is pushed up against a wall. The guy has his mouth on him, kissing him ferociously. Groaning, Sam shoves at him, trying to get space, but his muscles are quivering, ineffectual. He tastes cheap whisky and cigar smoke, and a darker flavour of male musk.

The man is biting at his neck now, soft bites with sharp teeth, and Sam sobs, clutching at his neck, his shoulders. "Stop, stop," he chants, when before he said, "Please, please," but resisting now is unimaginable. There's nothing in Sam's world but the shadows of this tiny closet, and the fire melting his brain, and the man's clever hands down the back of his jeans, squeezing his ass and teasing at his hole. "God, stop, please, _please_."

"You want - me to stop?" the man gasps, and at least he's out of breath now, at least he's _feeling_ this. His erection is a hot brand against Sam's thigh. "You're the one --" He doesn't finish the accusation, just pulls back long enough to yank Sam's jeans and underwear down to his feet. "Off, get 'em off." Sam nearly trips kicking off his sneakers, then kicking free of his clothes.

Now Sam is chanting, "Fuck me, fuck me," hooking one leg around the guy's waist and hiking himself up his body like he's a girl in a Harlequin romance. "C'mon, do it, fuck me." Their hands tangle together as they work down the guy's fly and free his dick, swollen and dark with blood. He grabs Sam's hand and curls his fingers around his erection before reaching into his pockets.

"Funny thing is," he says, pulling out a square foil and a tiny tube of lubricant. "I walked past a porn shop on the way to the bar, and they were giving out free condoms and lube." The guy is careful to articulate every syllable, no slur to his words. "Hmm. Didn't think I'd get to use them so soon." He quirks an eyebrow and Sam finds himself staring helplessly back.

"I don't, I don't do this. I mean, I'm not like this, usually," he stammers, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, for a way to explain why he is reacting so powerfully to a random stranger in a bar. There's something more going on here, he thinks, more than just a chance encounter and hormones. Something about this man calls to him, on every level. He lights up every synapse, makes Sam beg for release. "I just, I can't --" He rubs up against him, desperate. "Open it already, _fuck me_ already," he pleads, not even hearing how he sounds.

Startled and not a little aroused, the guy says wonderingly, "You really want it, don't you?" He tips his chin. "Horny kid. You'd let me do anything I liked, you want it so badly -- God even knows why." With the kind of meticulous care Sam doesn't think he could manage right now, the guy peels open the condom foil. "I hope you understand why I'm having difficulty believing that you _don't_ usually pick up strange men in bars," he tells Sam, almost conversationally. Almost back to appearing completely unaffected by the half-naked body twined around him. He doesn't have many tells -- only the fever-bright glint in his dark eyes, the sheen of sweat on his forehead as he rolls the condom on, his hands deft and steady, every movement controlled. Sam's breath catches in his throat as he stares, mesmerised.

With every nerve ending tingling in anticipation, Sam is barely aware the guy has been talking to him, but it's okay because now that the condom is on, the man seems equally anxious to touch, to pet Sam all over. He kisses Sam, tongue exploring his mouth thoroughly. With one lubed finger, he traces a wet line down Sam's spine, between his cheeks, until he's circling the ring of muscle there. Sam breaks the kiss with a gasp, hips jerking at the intrusion. "Easy, kid," he whispers, pushing in slowly.

"Oh God, _oh God_." Sam fights to relax, hands locked behind the guy's neck. His unwavering gaze helps to ground Sam, and they breathe together. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Another finger pushes in, stretching him. "_Please_," he moans, his head falling back with a thud against the wall.

"You're so beautiful," the guy murmurs reverently, brushing his lips across Sam's throat and jaw-line. "So sweet. I could keep you in bed for days -- weeks." He sighs, a mournful sound. "I don't even know your name."

Dazed, Sam takes a moment to find himself. "Sam," he stutters, the name wrung out of him. "I-I..."

"Pleased to meet you, Sam. I'm Toby." The guy is grave and sincere, not a little intoxicated, but he's gentle when he removes his fingers to add more lube. "Tell me if you want me to stop, Sam," he says solemnly, his heavy dick nudging at Sam's opening. "I'll stop if you --" but he groans, caught off guard, when his hips jerk forward like he's got no control. He grins then, with cutting gravity. "You just... say the word."

Spreading himself as wide open as he can, hands clinging to broad shoulders, Sam lets his body answer for him. They breathe noisily, rushes of hot, moist air in the smallness of the closet. The guy, Toby, pushes in careful, careful, stretching him agonising inch by agonising inch, so measured that Sam smacks his arm, close to tears. "Toby, _please_." He's hoarse with frustration. Trapped between the wall and Toby, he can't get the leverage he needs to move. "Please, _fuck me_."

"I want to," pants Toby, shuddering with the effort not to plunge into Sam's tight hole. "May I? Want to fuck you, make you _feel_ it."

"Yes, yes, do it, Toby," Sam babbles. "Do it, fuck me, fuck, _fuck_ \--" He's lost to all sense, incoherent, but Toby hears him anyway, thank God, and he bites down on the meat of Sam's shoulder, and he fucks Sam, fucks him hard. Sam sobs deep in his chest, _finally, finally_, and cants his hips to meet Toby's thrusts, sparks shooting off in Sam's brain, bright dots dancing behind his eyelids. Stumbling back a half-step, Toby slides his forearm under Sam's left thigh and lays him open. His quads burn. Toby's fucking him deep, the head of his cock hitting his prostate with every stroke. "Do it, Toby, fuck me, fuck me, _fuck_ me," Sam gasps, over and over and over, red-faced and frantic.

"You're so tight," groans Toby, his thrusts growing faster, more erratic. "You're so hot for it, aren't you, Sam? Sweet, sweet little boy. _Fuck_, yeah, fuck, fuck, _fuhhh_..." Toby grunts, thrusts hard, once, twice, and growls low in Sam's ear, "Do it, Sam, fuck yourself, do it," and Sam clenches down on Toby, climaxing with a strangled cry, shaking and sobbing. Toby chokes off a laugh and shifts Sam's limp body to rest against the wall. "Good boy, Sam, that's a good boy," he pants, sweat trickling down from his temples. "Now lie still. Lie still and _take it_." Then, Toby somehow forces himself in even deeper, shoving into Sam again and again, no gentleness left. Just pounding away like he's got rage enough to burn down Hades.

Sam is crying for real now, mewling for Toby to stop, to fuck him, harder, stop, don't, please, fuck, fuck, _fuck_, "fuck, fuck, _fuck_," Toby snarls, one hand clamping down on Sam's mouth, the other clamping down on Sam's thigh as he comes with a violent shudder. He pants for air in the sudden silence, then says _fuck_ one last time, softly. Strings cut, they crumple to the floor.

Like a newborn foal, Sam lies still under Toby's hands, limbs trembling, damp with sweat and tears and his own semen. Finally, Toby touches his fingertips to Sam's hot cheeks. "Damn it," he mutters, guilt heavy in his tone. "Damn it, Sam." Dark eyes that were stone only minutes ago are now soft and liquid, eloquent with regret. "Did I hurt you? Tell me if I hurt you."

Sam hesitates, then shakes his head. Everything hurts, but nothing is broken. He's pretty sure he's not bleeding. "M'okay," he rasps, his voice nearly gone from crying. He hesitates again, but he has to ask. He has to know. "Did you... put something in my drink?"

Toby's shocked expression is enough to convince him.

"No! I wouldn't put something -- no!" Toby puts a hand to his forehead, appalled at the idea. "Sam, I wouldn't, I'd never -- do you _feel_ drugged? Is that why -- do you feel sick now?"

Sam nods weakly, coughs. "'S better," he says, reaching for Toby, needing contact to stay focused. "It was Mike. Or Blanche. They like to party, they..." He licks his lips, tasting salt. "Always want me to take stuff." Toby pets his head, threading fingers through his sweat-stiff hair. Sam's eyes drift closed. "Maybe they put... something in your drink too?"

Toby's laugh is quietly bitter. "Sam, no. I don't get off so easy as that," he says with a sigh. "This was all me, as heartless as God made me."

He's exhausted to his bones, but Sam forces himself to sit up. "Head-rush," he gasps, lurching dizzily to one side. Toby catches him, puts an arm around his shoulders to hold him upright. "See?" says Sam, leaning against Toby's solid bulk. "Not heartless. Just... really angry. Why are you so angry?" Sam tilts his head to stare up at Toby.

For a long moment, Toby stares back, dark eyes on light. "Because I'm a loser," he eventually says, with a kind of weariness Sam is too young and too successful to understand. "Because I keep failing. Because I never win. And every good thing I touch seems to crumble to dust in my hands." He brushes the pad of his thumb along Sam's jaw and smiles sadly. "Case in point."

"Toby, no," Sam protests, fumbling to keep Toby with him, though he isn't really pulling away. "I wanted it. You didn't do anything wrong."

"You were drugged, Sam, you weren't thinking straight," says Toby, scowling. "You're still not thinking straight. I should've known there was something wrong --"

"How could you know?" Sam interrupts him. "_I_ didn't know. All I knew is that I wanted you. I wanted _you_." He tries to shake Toby, but Toby won't be shaken. "Not Mike, not Blanche -- you."

Sam figures it's only Toby's guilt that keeps him on the floor of this closet. Guilt, and Sam's vulnerable state. Toby wouldn't leave Sam alone while he's such an easy target for the next stranger in the bar with a taste for pretty young things. "You were practically dry-humping me, Sam," he says gruffly. "You didn't know up from down."

"I knew _you_," Sam vows, in a hush. "I saw you at the bar. I heard you yelling at the TV, cutting Grier to shreds, and I turned to see who... Toby, I had the strongest sense of déjà vu." Leaning in so that their breaths mingle, Sam closes his eyes to call up the image of the guy at the bar. "The way your hands moved. The way you fiddled with your pen, cradled your glass. I knew you." His eyes open, blue and fierce and determined despite the drugs in his system. "I'm a smart guy, but you... You're a brilliant mind. You speak truths. You want to do good. Change the world. I know you, Toby." Stretching up, Sam touches his lips to Toby's, a chaste kiss, a benediction. "Kiss me," he whispers. "Kiss me like I'm something good."

Mouth open, looking utterly stunned, Toby obeys. He presses his lips gently to the corner of Sam's mouth, then to his cheek. "You were crying," he murmurs, sorrowfully. The tip of his tongue traces the path of tears back down to Sam's lips. Toby kisses him tenderly, like he's precious, something to be treasured. Sam parts his lips on a sigh, granting Toby entrance. Their tongues touch, warm and wet and intimate.

Toby draws back with a shaky breath. "Sam," he says, overwhelmed by the trust. "Sam." He cups Sam's cheek and rests his forehead against Sam's temple. "I should call you a cab."

Sam turns his head to kiss Toby's palm. "Take me home?" He isn't about to let this man disappear into the night, even if their first time has been fraught with misunderstanding and drugged consent. Even if sex between them is a conflagration that could very well eat him alive. "Please, Toby. Take me home," he implores, everything he feels in his eyes. "Don't leave me alone."

"_Sam_." Toby kisses him again, tongue in Sam's mouth tasting him deep and knowingly, then breaking apart with a wretched moan. "You're enough to tempt a righteous man to sin," he rasps, one hand trailing down Sam's chest to where his soft dick lies still exposed. Toby covers him protectively. "I'd keep you if I could. You see, don't you?" he says, sounding torn between dread and exultation. "I know you too, Sam. I know you too."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Citizen Ship](http://lyrics.wikia.com/Patti_Smith:Citizen_Ship), a Patti Smith song. _Blind alley in New York City, in a foreign embrace. / If you're hungry you're not too particular about what you'll taste._


End file.
